


Fairytale of New York

by chooken



Series: 12 Days of Westlife [2]
Category: Westlife
Genre: Anger Management, Apologies, Christmas Eve, Drunkenness, M/M, Moving On, Past Relationship(s), Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8846110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Kian's in the drunk tank.
Inspired by Fairytale of New York by the Pogues.  One of my favourite Christmas songs, and possibly one of the most Irish songs ever.





	

****“Well, this is nice.”

Kian snorted. It was cold in here, despite the heating. Cold everywhere. There had been a blizzard forecast for the last few days, but it hadn't shown up yet. If anything it had been beautiful weather, a bright blue sky and a crisp breeze.

Inside it was dim. The lightbulb kept flickering, and there was an old drunk in the other corner, singing softly to himself, curled up on the cold cement floor.

Kian pulled his knees to his chest, wondering if he was going to throw up again.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

“Mark...” He sighed. “I don't know what to say.”

“And I'm supposed to get you out, am I?”

“They're not pressing any charges. I'm just...” Sleeping it off. That's what they'd said, anyway, when they'd brought him in. A hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve, but as far as his other options went, not that bad by comparison. “I'm really sorry.”

“For what?”

“For...” Kian swallowed. “Look, it wasn't...” He meant to say it wasn't his fault, but damned if he could think whose fault it was. “I don't know, babe.” The endearment fell out automatically, and he covered his mouth, feeling tears spring to his eyes. Mark was watching him awkwardly. The silence stretched out between them.

“Kian...”

“Don't,” he whispered. Mark nodded. “You're not taking me back, are you? No matter what I...” he sobbed, covered his mouth, tried to resist the urge to throw up again. The toilet was cold steel, didn't have a seat. He'd already spent a good hour praying messily over it when he'd arrived. The drunk in the corner had watched him without much interest, and then gone back to mumbling a song. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry's not good enough.”

“No.” He breathed out slowly, tried to centre himself. He felt dreadful. Had done, before the first shot had been poured. Now he felt dreadful and more ill than he could stand. The punch hadn't even connected, with how drunk he'd been. Still, that hadn't been a good enough excuse when the police had arrived.

“It's not just that you cheated on me.”

“I know.”

“It's not just your temper, either.”

“I know.” He gulped back his tears. “Would it change anything if I said I never meant to hurt you?” Mark raised an eyebrow. “No. Right. Fair enough.” He sagged back, closing his eyes. “I hit you,” Kian whispered. “I cheated, and you got angry, and we fought, and I hit you.” He didn't need to look at Mark to know he was nodding. “You'll never forgive me, will you?” He knew the answer to that one, too. “I love you.” There was no reply. He opened his eyes, stared up at the ceiling, at cold cement and the little window set in the corner, the flakes fluttering fast.

“Remember last time we were here?”

“You mean New York, or the drunk tank?”

“Ha.” Half a smirk drifted across Mark's mouth when he looked. “New York.”

“I remember.” He sat up a little. Early on, when things had been new and bright, when they'd barely been known in their own country, let alone here. When it had been anonymous, and free, and they'd been sure it was forever. When Kian had grabbed him by the arm and yanked him in close, snogged him right there on the street, like it didn't matter who they were so long as they were in love.

Mark had kissed him back. Kian had felt arms wrap around his waist, and they'd stayed there a long time, until someone on a bicycle had dinged for them to get out of the way, and they had done, giggling. They'd gone dancing, that night, Kian snuggled in close and feeling like nothing could possibly get any better than this.

He'd been right, just not in the way he'd hoped.

The next time Kian had grabbed Mark's arm like that it had been as Mark stormed out, tears in his eyes and his hands clenched into fists. Mark had shoved him away, Kian had refused to let go, Mark had shoved again, and Kian had...

He'd helped put an ice-pack on, Mark looking at him warily and shrinking away while Kian had tried to keep his distance, tried to speak softly, tried not grab Mark again to stop him stalking out to the car and driving off, one hand still holding the ice to his purpling eye.

They hadn't spoken since.

He hadn't known who else to call.

“I'm sorry,” he sobbed, hunching into his knees. The tears were coming now. Angry, queasy things that blurted out in heaving sobs. He didn't want to look up at Mark. Couldn't. Couldn't face...

“If you're sorry, why are you here?”

He shook his head, not able to get out the words. Not able to explain. How every moment without Mark had been worse than the last. That he felt like he'd been uncoupled from his tether, somehow, left to float in the void, fighting desperately to get back to something that felt like solid ground. That even if the alcohol didn't make him feel better, at least it helped him forget why his heart was broken. Blurred out Mark's smiles, and his laughter, and the sweet, soft touches on his skin that had always been honest, always loved him, even while Kian had been...

“It was just once. It didn't...”

“Don't you dare say it didn't mean anything.” Mark crossed his arms. “Don't you dare say it.”

“It didn't.”

“It meant enough for you to throw away everything we had.”

“I was drunk.”

“You mean for a change?” Kian scrubbed tears from his cheeks, though they were falling faster than he could catch them. “You're not just drinking because we broke up, Kian. You were doing that before. You can't make it an excuse.”

“You think I'm an alcoholic or something?”

“No, I think you're addicted to bullshitting yourself.” Mark's voice was flat. “Stop blaming everything else. You cheated because you could, because you wanted to.”

“I didn't want...”

“You didn't want to lose me. That's different. Nobody put a gun to your head.”

“No.” Mark was right. It had been an impulse. A drunken, stupid impulse, but an impulse anyway. He was good at being sensible. Eating well, going to the gym, showing up on time. Self-control was something he had plenty of practice in. “I regret it. Every second.”

“Good.”

“I regret hitting you.”

“You're probably going to regret this in the morning, too,” Mark pointed out. “How about doing something you don't regret, for once?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. That's not really my business any more.” Kian nodded slowly. “I'm not coming back, Kian. You threw away ten years. _You_ did that. Ten years of love, over twenty years of friendship, and you showed in ten stupid minutes how much that meant to you. That's something you have to live with. I have to live with knowing you didn't care enough about me to control yourself, that you even needed to control yourself, because it was a chore to stay with me. If you're going to feel sorry for someone, how about you try feeling sorry for me? You're not the victim here, so stop acting like it.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Good.”

“We're...” He sucked in a breath. “We're not going to talk again, after this. Are we?” He saw Mark tilt his head slightly. “I owe you that, at least. To let you...” He'd come away. To clear his head. To give them both space. He didn't know why, but he'd always thought... “I thought we could work it out, in a bit. If I gave you time, or...”

“You want me back. That's not the same as caring about me. Stop thinking about what _you_ want.”

“You won't ever want me back.”

“No.”

“No.” Kian nodded. He covered his mouth against a nauseous burp. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Be sick, then.” Kian was already stumbling towards the hard grey toilet. It came up painfully, a sewer of vodka and stomach acid. When he was done he was shivering. He sank onto the bench, looking back towards Mark.

“Mark?” He wasn't there. Just the flickering light, the creak of the door at the end of the hall.

“Kian Egan?” When he looked up again there was a police officer there. Not the same one who'd brought him in, but one who looked just as tired, stuck on the night shift on Christmas Eve. Or Christmas Day now, probably. He could hear church bells ringing over the city, drunken singing from the street outside.

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry. We called your contact, and he said he couldn't come.” Kian nodded. That was probably fair enough. The old fella in the corner had stopped singing at some point, was looking at him warily. “Or... wouldn't come. I think his exact words were that you could sort out your own mess, actually, that he wasn't flying over on Christmas Eve.” He gave Kian an apologetic smile. “Someone else you want to call? Maybe someone a bit more local?”

“No.” Kian shook his head. “It's fine. I'll just...” He looked around at the cell. “I'll just wait til morning, then go back to my hotel, if that's alright.” The officer nodded.

“Get some sleep,” he suggested. “We'll sign you out in a few hours.”

“Yeah.” Kian hesitated. “Hey... Merry Christmas, yeah?”

He didn't get a reply. Footsteps tacked back up the hall, and he heard the door thud shut. The old guy was still staring at him. Kian turned into the wall, closing his eyes and wishing the room would stop spinning.

“Merry Christmas, Marky,” he mumbled.

 


End file.
